Perchance to Dream
by Angel of Harmony
Summary: At night, curled up under schoolissue sheets and blankets that barely block out the harsh New England winds whistling through the tiny crack between the window and the sill, Todd dreams of the future. Slash, NeilxTodd


**Title**: Perchance to Dream  
**Feedback**: Any and all constructive criticism would be lovely, whether e-mailed or left in a review.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. 'Tis rather unfortunate.  
**Pairing**: Neil/Todd  
**Notes**: This is my first attempt at Dead Poets Society fic of any kind. I apologize if it's sub par. I further apologize if the idea has been done before, as I've read hardly any DPS fic and I can't be sure of what's already out there.

**Perchance to Dream**  
_By Angel of Harmony/Harmony/Jen_

At night, curled up under school-issue sheets and blankets that barely block out the harsh New England winds whistling through the tiny crack between the window and the sill, Todd dreams of the future.

In his dreams they live in New York. Todd has always known he'd be the perfect city person, surrounded by thousands of people who can be observed but will never force him to converse, and in the dreams he's happy to spend his evenings at the window of the apartment, writing poetry about the city dwellers and tourists traversing the sidewalk ten stories below. It's always a small apartment, of course, because they're both still so young, without much money, but it's comfortable and warm and feels more like home than anything, even his room at Welton, ever has.

Most mornings they sleep till ten, waking up to the sort of yellow late morning sunlight that manages to stream through even dirt-smudged windows. Neither of them is a morning person, and it is a relief to them both that poets can set their own hours and Broadway curtains go up at 8 pm. Even at ten their eyes are bleary until they've each had a cup of coffee, drunk together at the tiny scrubbed-wood table in the room that serves as both kitchen and parlor. Sometimes, in their sleepiness, their elbows bump together and Todd reminds himself that he holds his coffee cup with his right hand and Neil holds it with his left and they should really sit on opposite sides. But Todd doesn't mind the spilled coffee if it means he gets to touch Neil, and, if the smile curling around the ceramic rim of his cup is any indication, Neil doesn't mind either.

In the afternoons they have adventures, each day working toward a more complete mental map of their adopted city. Other times they go back to the familiar landmarks they've always enjoyed, taking in the old sights as if they were somehow new again. Central Park is stunning in the autumn, and sometimes, when the mischief strikes, Neil steals Todd's hat and takes off at a run and they chase each other across fields and over rocks, knowing they're far too old to be doing this and not caring one bit. Finally they get to a point where no one can remember who was chasing who to begin with and Neil tackles Todd to the ground and they lie on the grass, chests heaving from the running and the laughter. Todd knows if they were alone Neil would kiss him then, his right hand curved around the back of his skull to protect it from the ground, and the absolute certainty of that knowledge is more fulfilling than any kiss could be.

At night Todd walks Neil to the theatre, then makes his way back to their flat to write. Sometimes he wanders around town for a bit, searching for inspiration on streets that have more character than the entire state of Vermont, but he prefers to do that in the daylight hours, on the days that Neil has a matinee and only has time to meet with him for a quick dinner between shows. Most of the time he goes back to the apartment and sits up on their bed by the window, a notebook balanced on his knees and a pencil between his fingers. He likes to meet Neil at the theatre when the show gets out, to walk with him back home, but sometimes he hits such a burst of inspiration that the hours pass inexplicably fast and suddenly Neil is at the door, smiling and begging to read whatever has kept his lover so absorbed for the past three hours.

Todd usually gives in to that request, because it's Neil and, really, he's never been able to resist him. He's gained more confidence with Neil beside him, enough to publish his poetry under a pseudonym: Keating Perry. He still can't bring himself to read the poems aloud, though, and he can't bear to hear Neil read them aloud, either, so instead he simply slides the notebook across the bed as Neil takes his shoes off and climbs in next to him, and he reads in silence as Todd burrows his head into his upper arm. When he finishes reading, Neil turns over and kisses Todd on the lips, soft and gentle, and tells him that he's amazing, and for a moment Todd can believe it.

Sometimes Todd helps Neil refresh his lines when he gets home, reading the opposite parts in the script in what Neil calls an endearing whispered monotone. Other times they simply climb into bed, their naked bodies just one more example of the old landmarks that can still feel new after so much familiarity. Eventually they fall asleep, curled up on their sides, Todd's back curving into Neil's chest as Neil's arm wraps protectively across Todd's torso.

The play Neil is in is popular, and therefore expensive, and Todd can only afford to go every so often. But when he does he is mesmerized. He cannot put into words the fire that burns within Neil when he performs, the spirit that leaps from inside of him and takes over both his body and the stage. When Neil is onstage he is no longer Neil, and Todd knows that is the highest compliment he could possibly give, though he never knows quite how to phrase it. Sometimes he goes to the show without telling Neil, buying a seat in the mezzanine and pretending afterwards to merely meet him at the stage door. He's not quite sure why he doesn't tell him, but he thinks it has something to do with embarrassment over the visceral need he has to have his breath taken away.

When Neil is nominated for a Tony, Todd is next to him in the audience, shaking visibly as the best lead actor in a play is announced. They can't hug or kiss when his name is called, but when Neil gets to the podium he finishes his speech (after thanking God, his cast mates and director, Henley Hall, and Mr. Keating), with "And to that special someone—and you know who you are—you are the marrow of life." As the dream fades, Todd doesn't think he could ever be happier.

But when Todd wakes up and sees the empty bed across the room, white and cold and stripped of blankets, the pain in his gut makes him wish he had nightmares instead.


End file.
